


Occident

by TenWoolf



Series: Have One On Me [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind AU, Glitch non-moving text, Lacuna Inc, M/M, PAST Sterek, Song fic, Stiles is trying to get rid of the memory of Derek and Scott is a Lacuna therapist to help him, past drug use mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:05:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3612762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenWoolf/pseuds/TenWoolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' life was pointedly boring at a glance, but it was the cracks filled with gold that refined his weary edges. </p><p>And he wanted to erase Derek. Who he thought was the world and the poor boy wanted to destroy an entire culture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Long life, speak your name

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind since it came out but I mostly remember how Lacuna worked and then combined it with the mechanics of ASMRrequests' "Remember, It's okay to forget! Memory Erasure Roleplay".
> 
> The title and theme is after Joanna Newsom's song "Occident".

Memories were fickle, hard to hold on to and even harder to get rid of. 

The blessing services of Lacuna made the life long struggle with memories all the easier to manage. People could erase an event given the situation and evidence, why not the mental traces as well?   
Lacuna and the advancing field of medicine paved the way for that vision. Living free from the shackles of painful memories.

At least, that's what the brochure said. And Scott had to memorize that paper before they'd let him test to be a memory technician. It was a long way from veterinary practices but it had just as much significance. Instead of helping the family dog overcome old age he could help the poor kids get past the pain of losing him. He was doing good work. He kept having to tell himself that. He wrote it on sticky notes and taped them to his bathroom mirror he said it so much.

He was directly responsible for memories so vividly forgotten you could taste then on your tongue without rendering the flavor. Memories were so misplaced like the twice removed great great grand father from a country that fell when the founding fathers were swearing on stolen bibles.

He was as great at his job as he would let himself be since no customers could give him feed back.

Scott remembered every memory he got gone, playing in his head like hand held camera footage. The things people wanted to forget were justified. That was for sure.

Sweet girls and boys came in often, wanting to rid themselves of ex partners who kept chipping away at their hearts. It wasn't company practice, but Scott managed to calm most of them down. Giving out the philosophies his mother passed on to him about love like candy. That if they could just replay the memories they wanted to forget, but turned down all the noise they would see it differently. If they let the arguments and petty insults get silenced in those replays, they'd see that the passion was worth the trouble. 

But then a boy came in one day with the smell of cherry cigars on his shirt collar and a wrinkled photo warped in his hands.

His name was Stiles, this beautiful buzz cut boy with some memory shaking his composure like boiling water. His face was a permanent pale in deep purple bagged eyes and reddened cheeks, highlighting brush strokes on pure canvas.

"I need to get rid of him, this guy I've been..." He trailed off, turning away with panic on that canvas face.

Scott had the bedside manner of a southern angel. He eased in to their connection, giving tissues like it was a reflex and offering gentle shushes. No one was undeserving of quiet reminders of kindness. "We'll take this backwards, don't worry. Why don't you tell me how you found us?" He said, his hand on the arm of the patient chair, not making contact. He held a clip board in his lap, rolling a pen absentmindedly over his fingers.

He took a deep breath and replied, "There was an ad my coworker showed me about a month ago. I've been putting off coming in, sorry."

"Our services require a lot of consideration, its a big decision," Scott said, jotting down a few notes on the very last paper. "And if you're unsure about anything, you're welcome to ask questions and we can stop at any time." 

Scott waited for a nod from Stiles confirming that he understood. A big part of memory erasure was the patient's understanding and acceptance. As much as a memory could ruin a person, forgetting had the same effect.

"Are you currently having trouble sleeping or experiencing anxiety attacks?"

"Yes, to both," Stiles nodded.

"Have you developed any nervous habits in relation to your experience?"

Stiles ran a hand over the nape of his neck, tracing the outline of his hair line. "No, just the not sleeping. I had panic attacks as a kid, that's not new."

"With memory erasure therapy you may go through a withdrawal of habits. Getting frustrated with not having an explanation to why you feel the need to do something regularly, or in some cases excessively. If you realize any during the therapy we do have exercises to help." 

Stiles gulped and nodded, relaxing in to the chair. Most of the stark equipment in the office was like a dentist's or a standard issue exam room. Lacuna didn't exactly have catalogues for their kind of treatment.

"Is what you're here for related to any criminal activity?" Scott asked. Stiles looked confused but Scott added, "We ask for legal purposes. Its mainly for anyone in domestic violence cases or issues of personal theft. We run a background check with the police before therapy but we've never had to. Its rare enough that we've don't have any protocol."

Stiles nodded again, "that's a no, then. We never got violent. I mean we yelled...a lot. He's a good guy. I guess that's the problem. He's so good and... God, I sound pathetic. I'm such a girl about this. I just wanted to fall in love and it got so messy."

"You can't help who you fall for. Why don't you tell me about him," Scott suggested, tightening his grip on the chair arm. It was still a loose grip, more for his own restraint. He couldn't get too close too patients, even when they needed it. He couldn't supplement the love they wanted for his own, having to erase it all on the end to leave then empty. 

Stiles hesitated again, like everything was making him sore and slow to move.

"Start with his name. How did you meet?"

\---

Scott had been going in to Stiles' memories like a documentary series, enthralled by every natural detail and environmental consequence. He read over his history with the kind of enjoyment he saved for critically underrated artists and musicians. Stiles' life was pointedly boring at a glance, but it was the cracks filled with gold that refined his weary edges.

And he wanted to erase Derek. Who he thought was the world and the poor boy wanted to destroy an entire culture. 

Stiles and Derek met in the heat of a summer when California wasn't parched from a drought. In the old parted country roads that lead to bigger cities, with roads signs sparse as bread crumbs, Derek took his whole heart in one great big chew. 

He was a therapy baby, put with kind psychologists after the trauma of losses he never told anyone if they didn't already know. So Stiles spent their entire relationship regretting every fight and every easy mistake because he didn't want to be what sent Derek into relapse. 

Stiles talked about what gave him sleepless nights around mother's day and unsteady breathes when he watched crime dramas. He knew his fears but Derek didn't talk about this own and he didn't allude to even having them.

He tried like mad to be the net Derek needed but when he finally fell, Stiles couldn't be there.

They hadn't gotten far enough in their first session that Scott could piece the whole story together. They would get there, but it took time to erase a boy so significant he could fill history books like unearthed tomes

Honestly, Scott was jealous. On both sides, seeing Stiles so twisted over someone and hearing about how lovely his Derek was. Everybody wanted a love like that. Not enough that is was this overwhelming, but to be loved at the highest setting was rare.

Scott didn't see it often in his line of business. Mostly, it was people looking for an escape. People rich on pain, hoping to god that the procedure and therapy would be covered by their insurance. He saw a lot of abuse cases, wanting to rewrite their scars on to something more noble. Surgical scars from reset ribs became shark bites and mountain lion scratches. Battered kneecaps were rewritten to starve the lingering thoughts on carpet burns because a story about falling off roller blades was more palatable embarrassment. Girls who believed they still could be mothers were erasing abortion clinic bruises from their minds.

Occasionally, he followed protocol to send someone away. If they were trying to escape a reality they would keep on facing, Scott just did what he could to listen. A fair amount of patients left after their own realizations and epiphanies. Everything was practical in the clinic offices, very soft spoken and understanding. Scott and some of the other therapists went through withdrawals of empathy at the start but there was always one case that brought them back down to their humble footing.

Stiles was the first lovelorn case he had seen in a month or so. They weren't his favorite. People who came in with clear problems needed kind words and a pep talk, something to remind them that they were good and didn't deserve the pain they felt. Love scorned and hurt people saw themselves as the problem, or their lovers as the problem, or society as the problem. They were harder to console.

\---

Lacuna required three separate therapy sessions before erasing a memory. The first initial session is to plan treatment and the mental erasure map a therapist uses in the final procedure. Mostly its talk, a lot of talk to get it all out in the open.  
The second session requires the patient to bring in, preferably three, items related to the memory. For some its as specific as the itinerary or beer bottle label they were tearing or as broad as a the mail they opened the day it all occurred. Interacting with the items, the patient is hooked up to a monitor and their brain waves create a comprehensive map where the memories are most prominent.

Stiles brought in a black tshirt, a ratty spiral notebook, a coffee ground spoon, and a wine bottle. It was obvious that they weren't his things.

"What we do with your things is make a map using this machine," Scott said, pointing to the computer behind him, essentially an old styled monitor outputted with an array of plush cords in non offending colors. He tipped two switches and a button. It immediately turned on, reading the passive reactions of Stiles through the gloves. "You interact with them, talking about them helps, and your reactions give us a way to pick the parts of the brain where your memories are stored."

"Sounds easy. How does it all...work, exactly?" Stiles asked, putting on the gloves he'd been given. They looked like failed virtual reality gear, all mesh and bulky.

"Basically, we use a radio wave that induces amnesia in your temporal lobes. Which sounds really intense but our founder, Dr. Deaton has been a lead developer in amnesiac cures. Essentially, he found out how to induce it same as you can cure it."

"So, if you can cause it and cure it, could you reverse this?" Stiles asked, gripping and relaxing his fists at nothing. The gloves made him feel weirdly powerful.

"We've had two people come back," Scott said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "And that's only from when I've worked here, I never performed any. But it's available, if you feel incomplete or start to develop depersonalization or disassociation. If you find out that you sought out our services we'll have you listen to the session records and you can decide from there. Which reminds me," Scott trailed off, flicking on a small switch on the white coffee table they sat at. A cheap voice recorder had been bolted in to the table, painted over except for the little red light at the top. They recorded the sessions for a number of reasons; legal and research purposes but mainly for the sake of the patient.

"But its possible to reverse it?" Stiles asked again.

"Are you having seconds thoughts?" Scott asked.

Stiles didn't say anything. The first sound on the tape would be his unsure voice asking if he could undo his possible mistake.

Scott went on, "its possible, and just as safe as the procedure. We suggest an alternative set of memories for what we erase. You, most likely, won't seek us out unless you really want to. And I'll be here for you."

"That's good to hear, really."

"Do you have any other questions? Now's as good a time as any."

"Umm...does it hurt?"

"I've gotten no complaints. It should feel like anesthesia wearing off when you get home."

"Right. Ok, I can deal with that."He paused again, rubbing his eyes with the bare tips of his fingers, the Velcro scratching his cheeks.

"Are you ready to start?" Scott asked, his hand on the canvas bag Stiles had brought in. Stiles nodded, gulping.

Scott pulled out a notebook, its red edges faded and taped together so that the spiral binding was almost useless. It had "RECIPES" scrawled at the top in big girlish bubble letters. He set it in front of Stiles and glanced at the monitor behind him where it showed high peaks and few low points, a good reaction.

"Can you tell me what that is?" Scott asked, folding his hands together.

Stiles picked up the notebook, his index finger sticking inbetween the pages to a familiar spot. He opened it, habitually going to a page entitled 'polish thing', written in his handwriting. 

Stiles sighed heavily, shrugging like he didn't know how to explain it. "Its not mine, that's for sure. Derek would kill me if he knew I had it."

He turned from the middle page to the front, a note stapled to what looked like an introduction. The page read like a child's version of academia, using sparse redundant words in neatly illegible cursive. The note, attached with care, was a letter, written like an in class secret on sweet lavender stationary.

"This was Laura's. She was Derek sister. He didn't talk about her, ever, but he loved this notebook. It took two years for him to let me even hold it. And I didn't write in it until a couple of months ago. The very last time we spoke it was because he couldn't find it. It was after he moved out. He didn't want me to know where he was going so he did it while I was at my dad's. He took a box of my college research notes by mistake... He didn't call immediately but, after maybe two weeks. It wasn't even him, it was his cousin. But I said I didn't have it, she believed me and he didn't.

"I...didn't know I had it. But he thought I was mad. I wasn't. But he came back, and he yelled… and then I was mad. I don't actually remember the last thing I said to him." He paused for a moment, "But…then I was mad. So I when I found it, I didn't tell him or Malia…"

Scott wanted to ask why, it looked like he needed to. But the less Stiles realized now the easier the procedure would be. Scott didn't really have the luxury of being anybody's shrink.

"What's in it?" He asked.

Stiles flipped to the first few pages where the writing slowly degraded from cursive to print, growing older the farther he went through it. "It's all recipes. Laura really liked to cook and bake. Derek wrote half of them and there's two of mine. I really liked looking through here when he let me use one of her's."

"What was the first time like?"

"I uh, was roped in to making cupcakes for this bake sale one of my ex-students was holding. I don’t really bake much so I came home, complaining about it since I'd be forbidden to use any box mixes. They 'had' to be from scratch. Then Derek goes to his stack of books, pulls it out and flips to this," Stiles searches through the top corners, looking for a page that has been splattered with cake batter. He holds it up for Scott to see. It's filthy, partially yellowed at parts and missing the bottom half of the page. The top reads 'Black Magic Cake'.

"They're really fucking good. I make them every couple of months. You use coffee and extra oil to get them really moist… Derek said they were his mom's favorite and that Laura would make them on her birthday. Mine were apparently not as good but pretty up there…"

"What did he let you write in it?"

"Bialy Barszcz and zakwa." He smiled to himself, opening up to a dog eared page. "It was my grandmother's. She lived with us before my mom died. She on hospice and mom didn't want her in a nursing home. Sh-"

Scott interrupted, "it's important that you don't stray too far from the memories you want to erase. There's always the risk that we may tamper with what you want to keep."

"Right, right, that makes sense….she I want to keep," Stiles trailed off, the prickling sensation of anxiety coming out his pores. "I…So, it was…Wow, okay, now I'm terrified I'm gonna talk about her on accident. She died when I was 7, I barely remember her as it is."

Stiles didn't seem like the kind of person who panicked. He looked sure. He looked like he could hold himself up when wind battered at his knees and told him to give up. Despite how he looked, he was very weak. He was exhausted, the constant kind of tired that left purple bruises under your eyes and the palour of flushed skin like curdled cream. It made him look like he use to be stronger.

"Stiles, it's alright. We'll move on, we've gotten enough there. You're doing fine," Scott leaned forward, placing his hand on top of Stiles', the clamminess radiating through the gloves. He gingerly took the notebook, handling it carefully and placing it at the edge of the table. "We can always come back to it. I'll re-adjust your recording and we'll move on."

Stiles swallowed and nodded, the colour looming in his cheeks like it might fade out completely again. Scott quickly turned back and manually set the recording back three minutes, well enough away that he'd be able to keep the significance of his grandmother's recipe and the taste of the cake.

He went back to the bag again, picking out the plush black band shirt nestled at the top. He placed it in front of Stiles, unfolded and with the dense scent of oil in the collar. A sweet grin spread over Stiles' lips, like he remembered a joke only he would find funny.

"That’s…. Derek wore that on our first date, or I guess the first time we met, actually. He stayed over and I wore it the next morning because I thought it was mine," he picked it up, searching for the dainty tear at the top of its shoulder. "I told him I thought it was mine but…I do that when I meet a guy I like. I'll wear their shirt when I wake up and that’s how I know if I should stay for breakfast. He saw me and did that stupid movie scene trope where he kissed me and ran his hand up my back. He said I looked good in it….That's when I knew. That's when I thought I knew." 

"Why do you still have it?" Scott asked, stone faced and understanding.

"I absolutely stole it from him. When we got serious, it would be my go-to sleep shirt. We're around the same height, he's just more muscly than I am. He stretches out all of my shirts but we can share pants….Shared." He coughed to clear his throat, moving past the hiccup of realizing what he was doing. "But it's comfortable and really soft and…smells like him. He had…he smelled really nice, like really musky BO and fabric softener. Sometimes he'd use my soap and then smelled like honey. It'll be weird not knowing what that smells like."

He set the shirt back down without folding it, pushing it toward the notebook. Scott pulled out the little black coffee spoon, ti had hooked itself to the top of the wine bottle. It had a looming scent of lemon soap, like it had been recently washed. 

"That caused a lot of fights." Stiles said, leaning forward with his knees pressed up against the table.

"I've seen smaller things do the same," Scott joked, laughing alongside. He handed it to Stiles, the nylon catching his fingertips. "What's the story behind it?"

"I," Stiles patted his chest, "am a coffee drinker. All around, too much caffeine for my own good. I've got like seven different bags at once and some pre-ground stuff on hand. But I don't buy in to all the accessories crap. I've got a garage sale coffee maker and this one scoop, that's it. It's like, standard, it came with the machine. But it's also pretty much the same kind that gets sold at vitamin and body building stores." He rolls the spoon over his fingers, tapping it lightly against his nails.

"Derek is…a gym…brat, fiend, whatever. He's a real jock and buy these huge containers of protein powder. And he'd lose the spoon they come with in the actual huge, gigantic, tornado-when-you-open them jars. So he steal mine and I'd have to go spelunking to get it back because its mine and I like my coffee to be a certain strength. But the spoons look so similar that he thought it was his and we stole it back and forth from each other for about two years. I don't even know if this is mine or his, actually…" He stares at the curve of spoon's back, so black and shiny that he clearly saw the scratches and divots where it hit the edges of jars and knives in the dishwasher.

He set the spoon down, the light clatter of it hitting the table, and pushed it away again. "There's not much there to say, honestly."

Scott nodded, glad they were almost done. This session was always the hardest for patients, unfolding secrets that needed to be rid of and then getting showered in the waves. It was the breaking point for some. They'd go through photo albums and tear up, completely beside themselves with disgust that they'd want to get rid of any of it. Sometimes patients dropped out, too mortified to live without the memories and experiences. If they did, they were always angry at themselves. No one ever left happy to keep what they so desperately convinced themselves they needed to omit.

He pulled out the wine bottle, the bag deflating to the ground beside him. Setting it on the table, he noticed a flinch in Stiles' posture, moving away to the back of his seat. 

"I…I didn't mean to bring that. I just wanted to recycle it…" Stiles evaded, not making eye contact like a scared toddler.

"Stiles," Scott said gently, the smallest bit of anguish on his tongue. He hated having to make patients talk. It was as much an act of sadism as dentistry.

"Stiles, if you brought it then it's important." He coaxed again when Stiles remained unmoved.

"I don't…I don't remember what happened. It's from a fight but…I'd had the whole thing and I can't remember what the fight was about. I didn't have anything else and I didn't want to risk remembering it by accident…if I didn't mention it." Stiles said, avoiding Scott's face.

"Why don't you tell me about what happened before, then," Scott offered, not expecting Stiles to bite.

They stayed silent for a good few minutes. Stiles stroked the velcro on his gloves over and over, tracing the seams like top stitches were interesting. He wasn't going to budge.

"I said this when we first met but I'll reiterate, you won't remember talking about this in three weeks. You won't remember me, this building, or feeling this awful. That's the point of doing this all, Stiles. No one can understand what you're going through except you and you know that you don't want to live with it anymore. That's your decision and I'll help you through it as much as I can. But we have to get through this session if you want anything to change. It'll be a little bit of pain and then a lot of relief. We've only got a little bit more to go before we can finish... But I think you need a break.

"I'm going to get us coffee. You can stretch your legs or walk around for a few minute if you want." Scott stood up, adjusting his shirt collar. He didn't like to lecture, it wasn't in his nature, but from time to time he had to. 

He left for the hallway, the automatic lock shutting it with a soft click. It was a useless feature aside from the gentle shut. None of the doors locked in the day, computerized to only shut down at 6pm unless manually opened.

The break room wasn't really there for the sake of patients, but occasionally Scott would break the unspoken rule and fill someone up with chamomile in a funny mug. Anything to make to set them at ease.

He didn't know how Stiles took his coffee. He assumed he didn't know, but he felt he could guess. He seemed like the kind of person who liked sweet cream but no sugar, savoring the texture and warm aroma. He seemed like the person who would try to explain coffee flavored creamer, flustered that anyone wouldn't take a preference to taste if it meant less sugar.

Every patient that saw Scott had some story that he had to get to know. Most had great stories, hard wrenching and stomach churning upset. Even though Stiles' didn't, his being so much more typical of loving boys who didn't get along, he was still interesting. He was wishing he could have met Stiles under different circumstances.

Scott made two cups of coffee from the K cup, pouring less sugar into one on the chance he wasn't as good as guessing people. All the clean mugs were the boring Lacuna ones Deaton's assistant ordered when they first opened. Little cheap ceramic cups, a little bigger than what the curve of a palm is use to. The Keurig single serves left a gap from the top that made them seem half empty.

He took both mugs back with him, the desk receptionist catching him when he passed the corner of her eye. She was a pithy person, bird like with gangly limbs and trail mix she munched on every morning. She noticed the mugs and offered a solemn nod of approval. 

In the quiet warm office, Stiles was laying back as far back as his spine could bend. His hands draped over his face, gently tracing slow circled on his eyelids. He'd taken off the jacket he'd worn, lain askew on the ground next to him. The hitch of his cotton grey shirt came up high, showing the heavy trace of hair over and below his belly button.

Scott didn't say anything, just let the close of the door and the squeak of his chair quietly stir him. He set the cups down, side by side. Then he waited.

"….I wrecked his car. I wrecked this beautiful four year old black camaro. The car that I don't know how he paid for because it's worth twice my student loans. The car that I don't even know why he had because he can't even hold a conversations about muscle cars. The car that I told him I would protect with my life which he just shrugged off like a big stupid…tree! I drove it to get groceries and some lunatic t-boned me." Stiles put his head in his hands, struggling to comfort himself with the feeling of nylon running over his scalp. He reached out for the bottle instead, squeezing its neck, knowing he wasn't strong enough to break cheap thick glass.

"The passenger side was caved in, a gallon of milk exploded in the seat and I didn't have a goddamned scratch except for a bruise on my shoulder. I was a lucky son of a bitch and I was covered in milk for 15 minutes before an ambulance came because I refused to get out of the car I was so damn scared. Not even that I might be hurt, I ruined that car. I mutilated it. It wouldn't move in a straight line it was so twisted… it could only do donuts…" He chuckled at his own joke, the irony like chewing on rocks it still pained him

"They get me out, I'm fucking fine and somehow they get it towed and….some card for a lot, I don't know. The girl who hit me wouldn't stop crying and I just called a cab home and the guy thought I was high because I kept fidgeting. And I…Derek wasn't there and I was too scared to call him so," he gestured wildly at the bottle, releasing his grip and setting it back down. "From what I remember, this was a very good wine but it just tastes like regret now. I don't remember when Derek got home, I just have this hazy memory of him being really angry. Which is why I got drunk, he's surprisingly patient with drunk people…"

"Do you remember what happened the next morning?" Scott asked, sliding the mug of coffee further over and facing the handle toward Stiles.

With a shaky hand, Stiles grabbed the handle and brought the rim to his lips. It was too hot to drink but the smell and heat grounded him. He cradled it in his hands, the gloves like oven mitts to protect him. "I didn't see him for a week. When he finally came back around he didn't say anything about the car and…I was feeling too guilty to ask. But things were very weird after that. He didn’t seem as protective of me."

"What changed?"

"He didn't check up on me as much. I didn't get good mornings or good nights when we spent the night apart. He didn't offer to help with errands or cooking or…anything. He never offered to do anything, actually. It was frustrating, he'd been attentive before that and talkative. I got the feeling that he was waiting for the day that he would walk out, just needed the right opening," Stiles mused, breathing in the steam with long calm breaths. "He, y'know, did, eventually."

"When did he leave?"

"We got in to a disagreement. It wasn't a fight, we didn't yell or anything. I was packing my suit case to go see my dad. He doesn't ge-…sorry, no, not gonna get off topic again. We make trips every labor day instead of big holidays, easier on him. And anyway, I told Derek that it was weird he hadn't met him yet, that he should soon. And Derek says, to quote him and this is something I'd love to forget, 'Is that even a good idea?'. Is that even a good idea? Like he had already decided we weren't going to make it, like there wasn't any point.

"And it wasn't that he thought or even that he doubted. I could work with doubt. But he already made up his mind that he needed to give up…" Stiles sipped the coffee, humming in the taste and sighing. "I really tried to be open and…transparent with him. I wanted him to talk to me like I talked to him. But I'd honestly like to erase his memory more than mine."

There's a pregnable pause before Scott says, "Thank you….for opening up. We're actually just about done, that puts us with one last thing to cover." 

He went back to the old spiral notebook, with its faded red cover and girlish block letters. It had the vague lingering smell of stale flour and worn edges from cooking oil and finger oils. The fraying discarded edges from its perforated seams hung around in the spiral. Those little bits of paper were probably older than Scott's college diploma, older than his first kiss.

He set it in front of Stiles and asked, "What did Derek make?"


	2. Slow heart, brace and aim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you have issues with glitching (non-moving) text please be advised of the section after the line "Yes. I absolutely do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to, Docia ♥

Playing with memories is like the architecture in Legos. Empty spaces looked incomplete and empty spaces caused collapses.

The last required session before memory erasure at Lacuna inc. was to replace building memories, reintroduced keystone moments that held everything else together.

Meeting a loved one for the first time was replaced with a pleasant trip to the mechanic for a free belt suspension replacement. The grief of a trauma was replaced with the death of a short lived pet. Long medical recovers and physical therapy was replaced with sunny vacations.

And anywhere they could, the torment of experience was substituted with as much enjoyment as they could conjugate.

These slow hearts and minds that sought procedural ways to rid the claim on their happiness got creative every time. Before in those offices where they went bit by bit over pain they now started talking about how they always wanted to go to India, they always wanted to see the Natural History Museum, they always wanted a good memory of their grandmother's last Hanukah. Because a fake memory was just as good as a fake memory.

And Stiles really wanted something more than the pain that looked at him from the eye of a wine bottle.

He came in, thinking he'd have to recount more unshakable feelings and short drives at the acupuncture needles in his chest, sore little old sharp points that wouldn't pluck out.

"So what's it gonna be this time? Do we map out all the stuff I probably forgot to point out the first time around? Or is it the embarrassing Q&A portion where you tell me 'these are all standard question'?" Stiles asked. He had brought a travel mug, one of those bulky plastic ones you can design sleeves for, meant for parents with kids who needed reminders they were good parents. Stiles had made a sleeve with the design from a tv show meant to resemble the Starbucks logo.

Scott humoured him, laughing at the first real jokes he'd made in their entire session.

"We're actually doing the fun part of our time together," Scott explained. He pulled out a drawer full of small cables, picking out a few that were longer than he was tall. He connected a tiny laptop to a miniprojector set up to loom over head and project to a stark white wall on the opposing side.

"With all the memories we're erasing, we have to replace them with something for continuity so you don't go crazy," he said, closing the blinds to the windows.

"Definitely don't wanna go bonkers," Stiles sunk in to his seat, propping his feet up on the plastic coffee table.

"Ever had a dream vacation? Maybe Peru or the Bahamas?" Scott asked as he pulled up a presentation file on the projector. The first slide was a beach, the cliche cervicé and parasols with a rolling white tide crashing under a perfect photoshopped sky. The logo of Lacuna rolled on to the image, rebranded as a travel agency.

"A vacation?" Stiles said, sipping his coffee. "My entire relationship is going to be replaced with a vacation?"

"Given the length of your relationship, it might have to be a series of getaways," Scott added. "We use the back drop of the travel agency to stay in contact with you in case you experience any subsequent because of the treatment. We haven't had to for any patient but it's a safety net for the 'just in cases'"

"Finger crossed…So do I just get to pick a package getaway and then you toss it in my head while you're poking around at the last minute?"

"Something like that," Scott says, getting a glare full from Stiles that he chuckles off. "We make your dream vacation, pack it full of insightful and soul searching memories, some people request some summer romances. One woman quoted the plot of How Stella Got Her Groove Back…."

Stiles scoffs as potent images from infomercials and stock photo website go across the wall. They're all treated with a glossy red sunset overlay, the kind of fake tactile imagery that seems posed and stagnant. The kind of fantasies that stretched across the faces of honeymoon couples and Stella needs her groove back women when they pull out their facebook photo albums to show off. The kind of fantasy that doesn't seem like it was real when you return to your job and broken home appliances you never got the super to fix. He was going to replace Derek with that.

"Can I go to Poland?" Stiles bemused out loud.

Scott pauses, hoping he's not hitting the point of regret in Stiles. This is Scott's favorite part of treatment, he got to mold tangible thoughts and feelings that weren't painful. He was one of the original testers when the therapy was introduced, all for being the mental tour guide through Barcelona, the Amazon River, Shibuya's 109 shopping mall, the steps of the Lincoln Monument. He's officiated so many weddings based off of just photos and youtube videos from the hotel's they were held at. He got to use memories like legos and his childhood creativity made the beautiful architectural cityscapes. But if those memories weren't believable, they didn't stick. His brightly coloured models would come crashing down and he's have to start over again.

"My grandmother died last year," Stiles explained. "Never told Derek because he would have made me go and we…we were at the fun part of the relationship where I just wanted to be around him all the time. So I didn't see her off. I'd really like to have a memory of her."

"…Was she the grandmother with the recipe? The one you wrote in the notebook?" Scott asked.

"Yeah. Yeah she was." Stiles said, sipping away at his coffee and circling the rubber handle with his thumb.

Scott bit his lip, thinking back to a similar case a few months ago when a woman wanted to replace her divorce with a year in Switzerland where her daughter goes to school. He thought he might be able to reuse some details, motivate the same kind of feelings in Stiles. "We can do that," He said, switching out of presentation mode and pulling up a window to google.

\--

Scott meets the boy that caused a war in Stiles' heart two days before his last session.

Derek was as pale as the matching canvas that he had been in love with. But Stiles never mentioned the highlighted black stroke features that Derek had. His face was full of celestial curves in moon shade skin, comets coming out of his cheek bones and Cygnus's craning neck. He looked like a boy who could launch a thousand ships.

And when he walks into Scott's office, they're unaware. Scott has no idea that this Derek is the Derek. One look and he knew that Derek once had the navy of an empire in his pocket but he was naïve as to who had a hand on the switch that launched those ships.

It's protocol first, the sugar sweet kindness that needed to soften and soothe purple and red eyes. Scott asked him what memory he wanted to erase.

Scott had dealt with a few special cases that he couldn't see straight with and needed some creative solution to lead it all forward. And when he had to convince a person to seek other option aside from memory erasure, his creativity was ill matched. He understood and empathized with patients who were in such pain that they sought treatment but he never had words to explain to them the pain of not being able to remember why they hurt. 

The kind of tip of your tongue memories that glaze over in a person's head. It was knowing a piece of music, knowing where you learned it, how long it was, what the page looked like and even the notions scrawled across the margins in pencil or ink. It was knowing but not remembering and wracking your memories in vain. That kind of pain with something traumatic is cruel. It is cruel to take away a missing piece of torture and have it linger in the fibers of every shirt, the grooves of every spoon, every droplet of rain.

Scott could remove memories and suggest alternative realities, but he couldn't replace habitual pain.

And Scott had to convince Derek not to rid himself of his family.

"I lived in California till I was 13 when it happened," Derek spoke slowly, his words like needles to walk over. "There had been a girl I was dating. She disconnected the gas main in our basement and started a fire in our living room…"

Scott could only nod, keeping the calm in the room that was set by the automatic air freshener and the warming smell of coffee.

"I need to get rid of that night," Derek said.

"You just want to replace the night that it happened?" Scott asked.

Derek nodded in reply. He laced his fingers together, some nervous habit he developed after sharing the same thoughts and sentences over and over again, perfected from years of therapy.

"Thank you for telling me, Derek. I know this is very hard for you. But I do have to ask, are you currently seeing any kind of therapist?" Scott asked.

"Yes. I've had a psychiatrist for the past five years and a rehabilitation therapist I check in to see every six months," he explained, avoiding eye contact.

"I know it may not be relevant to what we're doing, but can I ask why you have a rehabilitation specialist?"

"No, it's relevant. I've been recovering from a dependency. I've been sober for nine years but I still see her as a help to myself."

"Can you tell me what you had a dependency to?"

Derek stared at the floor, no nervous ticks or lazy movements to distract himself. He sat, hunched forward, slowly cradling in on himself as he shared more and more. 

"This isn't easy, Derek. This kind of therapy brings up everything you want to forget. But whatever you tell me will stay in this room and everything we discuss will be eventually what we'll try to replace with something else, something happier." Scott said. He wanted to reach out and hold Derek's hands, comfort him in some way. But he got the unsavory feeling it wouldn't help.

Derek swallowed and readjusted his posture, still curled forward. "OxyCotin. It was a problem for six months until I was admitted to an ER by my uncle… I had passed out and stopped breathing."  
"Why were you prescribed OxyCotin?" Scott asked.

"3rd degree burns and a cracked femur," Derek said, clearing his throat. "I was in a lot of pain."

"And they were from the fire?" Scott asks.

Derek paused, reaching for the glass of water in front of him on the table. He took a short drink and set it down, the voice recorder registering the clink of glass on wood.

It was against Lacuna policy to assume during session but Scott tended to move around uneasy questions for the sake of patient comfort. Coming back when patients were more willing to open up. He asked instead, "Can you tell me how long you've been going to therapy."

"I've been seeing my psychiatrist for five years," Derek repeated.

"I mean in general. How long have you been in regular therapy?" Scott asked.

Derek didn't answer, taking big slow breaths in between moments where he couldn't keep his breathing steady. His shoulders shrugged impulsively in small circles, readjusting his nervously. He'd changed drastically since walking in through Scott's office door, the stoic façade of confidence crumbling away like charcoal.

"Derek, why did you come in today?" Scott asked.

"I need," he sighed, exiting every worry that was held up in his lungs. "I need to get rid of that night. I can't have it ruining my life anymore."

"What has it ruined?" Scott asked, then quickly rephrasing, "I mean, what has happened that made you come in?"

"I was in a relationship. My psychiatrist explained that I needed to stop associating what happens to me as my fault. She said I can't use it as an excuse to give up," Derek explained.

"Who did you give up on?" Scott asked.

Derek mused on the name dancing on his lips, how he couldn't even explain his reasoning for having abandoned someone who cared about him so much. He had regret so malleable and tough that he could chew it like a cud, rocking back and forth in his teeth and tearing up the flesh of his gums. Keeping everything between him and his lump of regret was easy, tightening his jaw was like the lock of a diary.

He stayed quiet, warring at the seal his mouth kept and trying to put what he'd done in to words.

Scott thought it was a good time for tea, honeyed chamomile to soothe and coax the words from his throat. "You're doing great, Derek. I know this is very difficult and you've done great so far. I think you need a break.

"I'm going to get us some tea. You can stretch your legs or walk around for a few minutes if you want." Scott stood up, adjusting his shirt collar, a singular habit.

He normally doesn't do this, use k cups like handkerchiefs and tissues to sodden with tension and misery. He doesn't normally have tea leaf salves that he layers over wounds. But its the sugar sweetness of chamomile that Derek needs.

The break room is plain as ever, an endearing Halloween mug on the drying rack by the sink. Scott immediately picked it up, going to the hot water pump on the old coffee machine. It only ran in the early mornings, turning off at 2pm for energy conservation because the constant burning plate ate up nickels and dimes for no reason.

Scott raided the tea cupboard, finding the small of chamomile blossoms hidden behind a spinning rack full of single serve lipton bags. He spooned just a few the dried buds out, favoring the smaller ones tightly bound in on themselves. 

The chamomile he hid exuded the type of influenced happiness that antidepressants did, a subtle short cure in tender swimming flowers. It tasted like sunshine, like smiles, all the supercilious child fascinations in creamscicles and nostalgic sugar cookies. 

He never made himself a cup, investing in the supply as long as he could, but Scott always took in the steam as it enveloped his overworked and empathetic heart.

When he went to leave, one of the other therapists walked in to the break room with an empty mug. She patted Scott on the back as she passed by, moving to open up the dishwasher near the sink. She was one of the original technicians and therapists who formed the practice with Dr. Deaton, a brilliant woman in red, Lydia.

They exchanged small hellos, unneeded after clocking in together that morning over their first cup of coffee. She mentioned that her dog, a chocolate lab named Francis, had stopped barking at cars at night and her last patient was an easy case of heart break. Lydia was a cupid, preferring to fix broken hearts than broken spirits.

Scott asked her, "Have you ever had a patient who was already in therapy?"

"Like behavioral therapy?" Lydia answered, mulling over the range of patients and clients she'd treated while digging around in the cabinets for boxes of rice chips. "A couple. I think I've had two. Natalie….S? and Colin H. This woman, Natalie, had been molested and it affected her so badly because she had been diagnosed with GAD around five months before that. And Colin had a…no, he was coming out of a tattoo removal treatment…

"I've had one, then. Why do you ask? Is your current giving you trouble?" She asked, leaning on the counter top.

"This guy lost his family in a fire and he's asking me to erase the night it happened. He still hasn't told me when it happened but I'm assuming he was a teenager. I sympathize but I don't know how to go that far back for erasure," Scott explained.

"Is he seeing a therapist for this memory?" She asked.

"I think so, he didn't say. He still sees the rehab therapist from the fire."

"Still? How old is he?"

"About 30."

Lydia chewed for a moment, the murkiness of her thoughts clouding up her expression. She reached out and placed a hand on Scott's shoulder. Locking eyes, she said so soundly, "Send him home."

"Can't we-"

"Send him home, Scott. If you want to help him, tell him why you can't. You'd have to annul every family tie until he thought he was an orphan and then he'd wonder for the rest of his life where he came from. You can't do that to someone."

"We can't do anything?"

"Try…asking him about what his family had been like. Ask about christmases or kindergarten graduations. Dig for the good memories and ask if he can get rid of those."

"What if he says he can?"

"He won't"

"But if he can?"

"If he can," Lydia sighed, "I'll help you with the mapping. But you should try to talk him out of it… Good luck, Scott."

"Thanks, Lydia. I gotta get back. I'll keep you posted," Scott said, nodding as he left.

When Scott came back in to the room, he saw Derek standing over his desk, unmoving as the door clicked shut. Scott cleared his throat, just loud enough to illicit attention. 

Derek faced him, the feather softness of fear in his pale cheeks. That fear was palpable, a white hot electric radiance that reached in all directions. And the colour leaving draining out past his neck was like the after effects of spilled bleach, every drop a mistake.

He held the red spiral bound notebook that Stiles had left in his hands, his thumbs fitting in the permanent groove from years of clutching. 

The horror that he found it seemed like a cruel jokes. Leaving it out in the open, right on the desk where everything else was a starch white and beige. The beckoning faded crimson and chicken scratch signature, wisps of perforated paper edges trapped in the coil like angelic down.

"Where did you get this?" Derek demanded, the strain of shock nestled in his throat coming out like a terrified snake.

And like an epiphany, he became Derek. Scott realized that there was no other Derek in the world, there would never be another Derek. Like a mythological Apollo or biblical David, there's no greater significance than a tragic hero to evoke an unforgettable fable. There was only one Derek, standing there on the shore, waiting for a fleet to save him.

"Where did you get this?" He repeated, a smaller voice tinged with frustration, calling out like the only answer was an echo.

"Derek," Scott said, the coo of his own voice wavering. He didn't know how to handle this. Derek was going to be hit by a freight train and Scott couldn’t do a thing about it but try to calm him down.

"Derek, why don't you sit down, we can talk some more.

"Derek, just come ov- You can sit on the floor, Derek. Just sit down, breathe.

"Derek, just breathe."

-

The day to erase Derek comes like heavy fog. 

"During the procedure, you'll be awake for the first ten minutes. We go over your replaced memory and I have you repeat it in your own words. I ask that you do it without acknowledging it as a replacement. You have to accept that it will be your reality. I ask a few questions, you answer the best you can. Sometimes it helps if you imagine me as a coworker you would have already talked to or as a friend you would tell your trip about. You could imagine that you're talking to your father, if it'd help you.

"Then I'll inject you in the temple with a very small needle. We call them bee stings. It might get a little red after but it shouldn't look or feel any different from a bug bite.

"I can't tell you what the experience will be like during the effects of the erasure. We've done extensive testing to see how the brain reacts to the stimuli and memory suggestion, we know which areas it interacts on a chemical level. But we don't know what you'll be experiencing. You won't either since the process will ultimately remove that as well. 

"It's not for certain, but it should feel like a really trippy dream. Those ones where everything is kinda loose and saturated with weird cartoony stuff."

The words wash over Stiles, sinking in that his created vision of a life without Derek will be a reality. It's surprisingly easy to digest. He'll wake up and never have to think about Derek again. He'll sleep soundly, never dreaming about his face, his hands, or his laugh.

"There's no chance I'll wake up in the middle, is there?" He asks. He's been reclined in a medical chair. It reminds him of what's used in a dentist offices, the mirror and sink torn away. Scott gave him a pillow to put under his back when he complained about the tension the first time. Scott's taken care of everything. He wished Scott could be here.

"No chance at all. We don't use an anesthetic, actually. You go under through deep suggested hypnosis, it gives us a better control over your brain activity and suggestion."

"And there won't be any pain?" He asked. He didn't have trouble connecting with this new technician. She was abundantly smart and confident, a brilliance that Scott had made up for in how kind he was. He trusted that confidence.

"Aside from what'll feel like a caffeine headache tomorrow, you shouldn't experience any pain."

"Sounds good, doc. Let's get rolling," Stiles said, he was already feeling exhausted.

"So I do have to tell you, while we're undergoing the question portion before you're put under, I can't break character. But if you feel at any time that you want to stop, we immediately stop. Before the injection, everything we do can immediately stop and you have the choice of walking out. You're in control of everything that happens, okay?"

"Okay." He said.

"Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" 

"…yeah," He answered.

"Alright. I'm going ask again after I fit you with the equipment."

Lydia wouldn’t write down that Stiles hesitated. She wouldn't make note that he had the kind of glare in his eye that she's seen in sleep deprived patients who are unfit to make medical decision. This case was already a mess and she wanted it out of the office.

She never wanted to be a grief counselor. Lydia understood the torment felt in patients with ptsd and anxieties related to emotional trauma. She could see it on in confidence without letting it cloud her judgement. But when she saw someone grieving over the loss of every opportunity they thought could cure them, she had to step back and readjust.

When Scott asked her to take over the Stiles S. case, she understood. When he told her that he couldn't act within the best interests of two patients, she understood. When he said that he can't ask Stiles "Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" without convincing him that he shouldn't, she understood.

"This equipment shouldn't feel uncomfortable but tell me if it does," she explained, fashioning velcro covers to Stiles' fingers and forehead. The lined black nylon fit snuggly, matching well the with sensation of her hands against his scalp. 

"Can I tell you something kind of weird?" He asked, palming at the finger covers, feeling animated and unreal. 

"Sure," Lydia busied herself with the monitor set up, importing all the files that had been gathered on the iPad during the last session. There were at least a hundred photos of Tarnów, a small tourist town in Poland in its peak seasonal months, and the calm warrior smile of Stiles' grandmother in her home, bundled up in hand knit afghans and bunny slippers.

"I'm gonna miss Scott. He's about the only person I've talked to outside of work in months," Stiles laughed, thinking it was absurd. "I know that sounds really pathetic, but it's true."

"I don't think that's pathetic. He'd be really touched to hear that," Lydia said, keeping her eyes fixed on the monitor. "We don't get to hear it all that often. I'm sorry he couldn't be here today."

"Was it something that I did?" Stiles asks, rocking his feet back and forth in the chair.

"No, not at all. It's something he did. He's been needing to take some time off," She said. "Maybe you'll meet again someday. Everybody deserves a clean slate."

"Maybe…" He trailed off, staring at the popcorn ceiling.

"We're just about ready," Lydia said, disconnecting the tablet and placing it back with the projector. She loaded up the first slide show, the old withered building Stiles' grandmother raised her children in standing strong in a lush aged photo. She closed the blinds, darkening the office. 

"I'm going to sit right by you, it's important that you utilize the details you provided. Little things you can link together help the suggested memory become more tactile for you," Lydia explained, pulling over a rolling chair beside him. "Smells, textures, and atmosphere can be very observant memory markers."

"Right…"

"Are you sure you absolutely sure you want to do this, Stiles?" Lydia asked, catching him off guard.

Stiles took in a breathe that clotted down his throat like gravel, "Yes. I absolutely do."

\--

When he remembers him he sees the ocean in his eyes. Not the sandy beaches or the cloud cover or the pristine auxiliary colours in pinks and blues that exist nowhere else in nature. He sees the murky tide pool greens, clusters of sea foam that carry home Aphrodite and her kissing faith, where insignificant worlds house microbes and mollusks.

He can see the first time he got lost in his hands, falling forward coming out of his old apartment building where the chipped steps made with the will of divine sculptors' had he trip on the tinniest imperfection.

He remembers the touch of their chests when their song played on a shallow speed, accompanied by the bird song of cooing pigeons and cackling cry of ravens. Their own squawking laughter spoke promises and vows, so subtle that their meanings form languages that birds couldn't mimic. 

There were films they entangled fingers to, messages coded with concern, and seasons that passed with heat and exhaustion.

He remembers their naked forms, fumbling together in the absence of feelings, so disregarded with insults and dirty talk that they remained silent. He remembers hating their silence, hating their lack of speech where awkward reticence hung around like ghosts. He remembers hurting, caged in intangible band aids and gauze with the perfume of Neosporin following at his ankles. He carried around grief in his shadow, all-consuming of the light he sought out.

He remember and remember and then in the turning flame of memory, it flickered and flickered

And flickered

And flickered

Running down to the wick 

Where the alum͙̞̱i̗n͎͉̘u͍̘̙̗m̪̦̖̞̹͎ base stood strong

Melting wax and melting m̆ͯ͛̆elt̡iǹg me̶lting ͜me͝tal

And the runny textures of paint replaced when they first met. The staircase becoming porous, becoming glue that captured his feet.

The night they first had sex slowed down, like a dream where running couldn't bring up speed. The chase down that hallway of that beautiful hotel of that impromptu getaway of that wonderful night was concave, collapsing in so that they never reached the door.

Collapsing so thaͯ̓ͫt̒ ͣ͗͂ͮ̉t́͂̂ͩ̊hͫ͛ey couldn't touch the floórrŗ

Col͆̑͆lͫ͌͋̾̎̊ā̾̈ͣpͤ̈́ͮ̇ͮs̓iͥͭ̓̉̏ͧn̓̅̌ͫͮ̏g so that they coȕ͂lͯdͭ̊̎̈̿n̉'̀̿͑̂ͬtͪ͒̐̓̌ ͗̎pa̽w at the ground

Collapsing col͗ͥ͌̾̔ͨl̐ͩͧap̋͑̓ͩ̚sͨin̔̈́ͣͩ͌̓g̑̇͆̇̓̑ col̇̈́ͥ̂l͑̇̿̉a̓̾ͫp͋̎̿̄ͣͬs͒ͮ̈́̓ͬ͛̆ȋ̎͐͋̋ͮng so that they tͫ̅͋̓͗̒ͣ̌̑h̅̽̆̌ͮͫͬͨ͑eͫ̎̊̇̂͑ͭ͌y̓ͥͮͯͪ ͯ̈́t̓ͬ͂ͮ̌̏̓hͤ̂̆ͧ̅͑̓̆eͭ̍̾͑ͩͩ̓y̔ͯ 

They were running on black, endless blank black canvas spe͜ck͡led͡ ̵wi̕th̕ freckles

Canvas skin

Canvas skin

He made so many jokes about turning his freckles in to connect-the-dot patterns, his canvas skin printed like a nebula and their sex injury bruises just became newly discovered Hawking black holes and galaxies on that caAN͝V̀͠A̶͟S͢͠ ̴S̴̵K̛͡I̵͢N̢̕.

They were so normal. They were so relatable. Two boys with problems who fell in love and then out. They were so n̸͡o̶̸ŕ̕m҉a͘l. They were so f̛i͜xa̡b̷͟le̕͡. T̏̀hͦ̊͑ͤ͂̆ey were so so

So

So

So

So

So

Soon he'll wake up and not remember a world, of a whole culture he evicted from his mind.

\--

Scott took a leave of absence. He referred to it like that even when HR told him he had paid vacation he needed to use. But he still said it because it's what you do when take time to atone.

He was spending his first Saturday alone when he got a call from Lydia. She had been out, by herself or with friends, she didn't say, but some she had some emergency. She hung up without having him speak, yelling out an address he barely had time to jot down. 

She was at a bar downtown, something trendy between a cellphone store and a restaurant that couldn't be pronounced. Its yellow light logo hung above the door, a swirly neon script that glared like the front of a train.

He found Lydia by the door, a table opposite the bar that straddled the wall where graffiti on landscapes of sandy beaches hung high near the ceiling, out of reach and out of mind.

She didn't say anything, just waved him down and patted the edge of her small table. 

Sipping a gin and tonic, she pointed to two a few seats down, some silhouettes made out in the ornate spotlights shining down on patrons. It was a clear vision of canvas skin, bathed in blue neon like phosphoresce. All their clean white teeth were bright in the light, laughing in and out of disappearing faces.

"How...long have they been there?" He said, so caught up the blaring music that it faded to Lydia like it belonged in the beat line.

Lydia leaned toward him, eyes steady ahead, "About an hour. I'm just keeping watch."

"Did you…?" He trailed off, the question lingering that he couldn't finish.

"I didn't do anything. Stiles' treatment went great and he wrote us a review like everybody else," She explained.

"Did Derek see you for-" He asked.

"No," Lydia said, pulling her phone out she checked the time. "Nobody's been in that brain. But I told him Stiles doesn't remember him."

"You…No, Lydia you can't-"

"I told him an hour ago," She said, unwavering. "Off the clock."

Scott didn't say anything, just staring at the side of Lydia's face. Even through the soft red eyeshadow and foundation, he saw the curl of laugh lines and lavender sleep deprivation.

She looked at him, attested and sure, "Everybody deserves a clean slate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any typos, I don't car.

**Author's Note:**

> Do excuse any typo; I'm very lazy.


End file.
